


Martyr

by agent_florida



Series: MPD Church [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fight Sex, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/agent_florida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She left him years ago. So why does it still burn every time the anniversary comes around? And why is it only Tucker who quenches his flame?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Martyr

Church had the whiskey out. And that was never a good sign.  
  
Tucker knew from his HUD what day it was. He never bothered to keep it synched up to the BattleNet, because he never wanted to receive orders from Command, but it updated itself periodically, usually twice a month. By now it was about halfway through February, and his helmet unexpectedly updated itself in the middle of the night, waking him with its alert sound.  
  
Valentine’s Day, and Church had the whiskey out like he did every year at this time. Exactly where they had been a year ago, sharing the kitchen table in the middle of Blue Base, pretending like nothing had changed between now and then.  
  
Pretending like they hadn’t moved out of Blood Gulch and into Valhalla. Pretending like Church hadn’t found out who he was. Pretending like he hadn’t been a Relic for those weeks. Pretending like Washington hadn’t assassinated Donut to find out where he had been. Pretending like they hadn’t needed help to get him pieced back together with the other i-frags, back at home in a body he would be familiar with.  
  
His new organic form didn’t seem to be familiar with the whiskey; his throat worked hard against each swallow, and the shallow gasp he emitted after each sip was hoarse and unsatisfied. But it still looked so much the same as his old human body, the human body he had had during the first Valentine’s Day he had been with Tucker at Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha. Black hair swooping low to cover blue eyes, a small beard covering his chin, pale skin showing his blue veins, exaggeratedly long fingers as they gripped his tumbler,  _don’t think about that, Tucker, not right now._  
  
His glass was now just full of whiskey rocks and he was just staring at it, not volunteering any words or reaching towards the bottle of bourbon. Tucker knew he wasn’t ready to talk, so he didn’t say anything himself when he filled the bottom of the glass with another shot. Church’s facial expression changed to a grimace, so minutely that anyone else wouldn’t have been able to tell, but Tucker saw it. Tucker knew what he was looking for.  
  
The second tumbler of whiskey passed a little quicker, Church’s eyes becoming more bleary with each sip, the gasps as it went down slowly evolving into little groans. Once the glass was empty, Tucker filled it again. They hadn’t said anything to each other. They hadn’t needed to.  
  
Halfway through this shot, Church finally opened his mouth, saying the same thing he said every year. “She left me.”  
  
In response to this, Tucker could have said any number of things. He could have asked who ‘she’ was. He could have scoffed at his teammate, telling him to man up and get over it. Or he could go with what he said every year, which was “She shouldn’t have.”  
  
“I found her, you know.” The glass banged down on the table, hard.  
  
“Found her where?” Tucker already knew the answer, but it was ritual: the question had to be asked.  
  
“Ass in the air, getting fucked by one of those goddamn Freelancers.” His voice sounded hoarse, though he hadn’t taken a drink since he had started speaking.  
  
“Dude, I’m sorry, man.” There wasn’t much else to say. It was what he usually said, but Tucker hoped Church could tell that he was sincere, that he wasn’t just repeating the script they had used for the last several years.  
  
“It’s not you who has to be sorry,” Church said darkly, turning his gaze towards Tucker. Though his new body was so similar to that first one, it seemed to have a few upgrades; his eyes, which once had been deep blue, were now light, so cold that Tucker felt a shiver up his spine as his teammate kept eye contact. “It’s her.”  
  
“She’s dead,” Tucker reminded him, hoping almost that Church didn’t hear. He hadn’t ever had to say that before, but it was true.  
  
“No, she’s not,” Church said, letting his hair fall in his face again.  
  
“There’s a crashed Pelican and some flight logs out there that say otherwise,” Tucker pointed out.  
  
“Memory is the key,” Church said absently, staring down at his hands in his lap.  
  
“What?” Now he was just confused.  
  
“Memory…” Church stood up, his voice containing some secret wrath that Tucker had never heard before. “Is the key.” And before Tucker could process what was happening, Church had grabbed his shirt collar and was forcing him to stand out of his chair. “And part of me remembers.”  
  
“The fuck are you talking about?” Tucker said. The grip on his collar reminded him too much of Omega when the Alpha was supposed to be in charge.  
  
“I remember!” Church shouted in Tucker’s face. “I fucking remember  _everything!_ ” He flung Tucker away from him, the momentum causing him to hit the wall face-first.  
  
“Epsilon remembers,” Tucker clarified, pushing himself off the wall with his arms and trying to catch the breath that had been smashed out of him.  
  
“No.” And the voice was dark again, and Tucker was slammed back against the wall, Church’s body holding him there. Oh, God, it wasn’t the same as it had been; he was a few inches taller, had muscles that were a little more defined, and it felt so, so different from every other year. “Omega remembers. And I remember. And because I remember, he shows me. He fucking  _shows_  me, Tucker,” slamming him against the wall to emphasize his point, “shows me memories he picked up from Tex, things I never wanted to know…”  
  
Tucker, in his desperation, barked out a short laugh. “Not anything you didn’t count on.”  
  
It was the wrong thing to do. “Do you think this is funny?” Church asked him, slamming his head into the wall so that he saw stars. “ _Do you fucking think this is funny?_ ”  
  
This, Tucker thought to himself, this was more like it, this was more like what happened every other year. And so he went back to the script, using a pleading tone with his teammate. “Church… Leo…”  
  
“Don’t you fucking  _call_  me that!” Church shouted in his ear as he pulled at the collar of Tucker’s shirt. He peeled himself off the wall, which pressed him further into Church, and the other man removed his shirt almost faster than he could blink. Then it was his bare skin pressed into the cold concrete wall of the base, his nipples already hard, the only warmth Church’s hand on the back of his neck.  
  
“Leo, don’t…” Tucker said again, intending to use the name, not intending for him to stop.  
  
And this time, when his body was peeled off the wall, it was promptly slammed down onto the floor. Tucker was positive something in his face just broke, but by the time he moved his hand to touch a wet patch on his cheekbone, Church’s hand caught his wrist and wrenched it backwards, showing Tucker the redness on his fingertips in a brief flash of color. Then his arm was wrenched up behind him at an awkward angle as Church sat on the small of his back. “Don’t  _ever_  use that name.”  
  
“God, I’m sorry, fuck, Church, get off me…”  
  
“Sorry?” Church said, leaning down against his back. Tucker could tell that in the brief time he had been stunned on the floor, his teammate had been able to take his shirt off; his skin sliding against his bare back felt almost too good to be real. “I’ll  _make_  you sorry.”  
  
 _Yes, make me sorry, take it out on me, take all the rage out on me,_  Tucker thought, and in the tense silence now filling the room he could hear Church undoing the fly on his fatigues. He tried to turn his head, raise himself off the floor so he could see what Church was doing, but the hand that had been holding his wrist moved up to fist itself in his hair and smash his face back down into the floor. Now there would be a matching welt on his other cheekbone, and it made Tucker want to laugh again that at least Church was breaking him beautifully.  
  
The chuckle came out of Tucker’s throat before he could stop it, but it changed in his throat when Church dragged his jagged nails down Tucker’s back. Tucker let him yank off his fatigues, heard the snort of disgust when Church realized he was going commando as usual, but all of that was normal compared to what happened next.  
  
Church’s hands came to rest on the backs of Tucker’s thighs, sliding upwards almost gently, as if persuading Tucker to spread for him. Church had never been this polite before, and if possible, this was even stranger and wilder than the unrestrained rage he had let out just moments before. Tucker trembled under the teasing touch, not daring to move the hand stuck between his shoulder blades or the hand that was pawing the cold tile of the kitchen for something to hold onto, because  _holy fuck._  
  
One of Church’s impossibly cold fingertips was just resting against his entrance, patiently waiting for him to calm down, and Tucker wondered for a split-second whether it was really the Alpha in control of that gorgeous body. In years past, Church could never have been described as gentle or patient, but Tucker let all of that slip out of his mind as that wonderfully slim finger pushed itself inside him and  _ohh yes_ Tucker groaned in satisfaction.  
  
He had already been half-hard from being beaten by Church; now his erection was painfully trapped under the weight of his body, protesting against the cold tile. The noise coming out of his throat changed from a moan to a slutty whine as Church worked his finger further inside and hit that sweet spot, and he was seeing stars for a whole different reason than when his head had slammed against the wall earlier. He tried to prop himself up on his elbow, but Church forced his chest back down to the floor when he rested his own elbow on Tucker’s upward palm. “Are you sorry yet?”  
  
“Fuck no,” Tucker said, and it was enough for him to earn a second finger alongside the first.  
  
“Gamma says you’re lying.”  
  
“Gamma  _is_  a liar.”  
  
“Not about what you’re saying.” Church’s fingers scissored inside him, and Tucker almost sobbed at the feeling. “About what’s motivating you.”  
  
Then the fingers weren’t inside him any more, and the hands were stroking along his thighs again. Church’s hands curled around his hipbones, lifting them from the floor, and Tucker obediently kept his ass in the air. “Gamma doesn’t know shit about what he’s talking about,” he complained, keeping his blushing face on the floor.  
  
“No, but Delta does.” And Church, the little tease, pressed his body close against Tucker’s but let his cock rub against Tucker’s perineum. “He says you’re a martyr.”  
  
“He says I’m a what?” Church peeled away from him, then nudged at his hole with the head of his cock. As it slid slowly inside, Tucker groaned out, “Oh, God, God…”  
  
The laugh crawling out of Church’s throat was Omega’s, but the voice following it was Delta’s. “Martyr. A person who undergoes great suffering for a belief or cause.”  
  
“Fucking…” He was going to ask Church when he had memorized the dictionary, but at the moment, he would have needed one to form a coherent sentence. His teammate was pushing inside him so slowly, so fucking slowly, like a dull ache and a sharp pain all at once. “God,” he gasped out.  
  
“That’s not my name,” Church said, the Alpha’s snark back in his voice, and after what seemed like forever, his cock finally stopped moving inside Tucker. Apparently his new organic body had an upgrade here, too, so long that Tucker was feeling more pain than pleasure. He leaned down to kiss Tucker’s upturned palm still resting between his shoulder blades before he whispered against his back, “Delta was right.”  
  
Tucker tried to say something in response, but he lost the words and the breath to say them in when Church pulled out and drove back in, quick and harsh. He stayed settled inside him for too long, and Tucker almost sobbed at him to move again before, by some miracle of synchronicity, Church repeated his solitary thrust. This time, he really did cry out as something inside him sent a spark up his spine.  
  
Now this, Tucker thought, this was more like it, as Church drove into him again and again with a familiar and terrifying savagery. “Does it hurt yet?” Church kept asking, and Tucker couldn’t reply, too torn between pain and  _ohgodyesthere_  pleasure to form actual words or, in fact, use consonants. It only made everything hurt worse, the intensity of Church’s thrusts building, those nails scrabbling against his back again, and when he tried to raise himself up and fix the angle so it wouldn’t hurt so badly Church slammed his face into the tile for the third time that night.  
  
One of the few things about the situation that wasn’t intensely painful was the way Church was gripping onto the wrist he had trapped between Tucker’s shoulder blades, but it wasn’t enough to mitigate everything else that was going on. The floor was cold and hard, Church’s pace brutal, Tucker’s face bruised, his arm twisted at an almost impossible angle. Tucker would have given anything for this to feel pleasurable like it usually did, and he just hoped that his non-dominant hand would give him enough sensation around his painfully ignored cock that he could get off and be done with it all.  
  
He tried to sneak his hand there in a way that Church wouldn’t see it, but of course he saw; he was much more observant these days, what with the extra sets of analytical personalities in his head. And so just when Tucker’s fingers had found a good grip, he swatted the hand away, slamming Tucker’s head back into the tile a fourth time as a punishment for his impudence.  
  
To Tucker, it seemed like he had just blinked, but he knew something else had happened. His head was aching, and he felt empty everywhere: he was spent, Church had finished, and his heart felt heavy. “What… what just happened?” he groaned, moving his hand from his back to clutch at his bloody forehead and rolling over onto his back.  
  
“I, uh,” Church said from somewhere above him. Then his teammate was wiping the blood from his face (and the asshole was using Tucker’s tee instead of his own). “I think I might have given you a concussion with that last one.” And he chuckled; the smile on his face, though cruel, managed to warm Tucker’s heart at least a little. “Do you know how fucking tight you got when you lost consciousness?”  
  
“Great to know that hurting me gets you off,  _Omega_ ,” Tucker grumbled as Church threw his now-bloody shirt into his lap.  
  
“Nope. That was all me,” Church said, the grin on his face wicked but still Alpha-like. “I can’t believe it takes knocking you out to make you come.”  
  
Tucker didn’t say anything as he attempted to put his clothes back on; saying anything at this point would have goaded Church into Round Two, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to take any more of his abuse. Not now. He stood, his muscles protesting as they were stretched, and he glared at Church as he threw his bloody shirt in the trash can. As he passed the kitchen table, he finished the half-shot of whiskey that was in Church’s glass, realizing belatedly that his teammate hadn’t even bothered to kiss him on the mouth this year before the action had started heating up.  
  
He turned and started to walk out of the kitchen back to his room, but stopped when Church said “Hey” softly. He waited for whatever he was going to say, and when he finally talked, the voice sounded like Epsilon. It shocked Tucker; the AI had been silent for weeks. “Are you sorry?”  
  
Tucker turned back to glance at him, hoping that the gigantic bloody bruise on that side of his face was clearly visible to Church. “No,” he said distinctly before leaving the kitchen. Once he reached his own room, it was all he could do to reach his bed before he collapsed completely.  
  
How could he be sorry? He had gotten what he wanted: he had taken Church’s pain, his anger, his worthlessness, and made his teammate feel whole again, so whole that Epsilon felt free to speak. It was the only way he could show Church that he was there for him, that he loved him, and it was worth every minute of physical pain to have the pleasure of having Church… even if this was the only way he could have him.


End file.
